Grace is the first to speak, her voice clear and authoritative, her doctor’s voice. “This photograph, these are the Colliers. They were your foster parents. You had to go to them once your biological mother died, because under state law we had to wait to see if you had any relatives who would claim you.”
Oh.
Her voice drops. “We had to wait for you. It was agonizing. Two whole months.” She closes her eyes, as if reliving the pain. It’s sobering. My anger melts away as my breath catches in my throat. I cough to hide my emotion.
“In the picture.” I gesture to the photograph Grace is holding. “The boy with red hair. That’s Jack Hyde.”
Carrick leans in and they examine the photograph together. “I don’t remember him,” my father muses.
Mom shakes her head, a forlorn look on her face. “No, me, neither. We only had eyes for you, Christian.”
“Were… Were they kind?” I ask haltingly, my voice a shadow. “The Colliers?”
Grace’s eyes fill with tears. “Oh, darling. They were wonderful. Mrs. Collier doted on you.”
Silently, I blow out a breath of relief. “I wondered. I couldn’t remember.”
Grace’s eyes widen with understanding. She reaches out and grips my hand, hazel eyes beseeching mine. “Christian, you were a traumatized child. You wouldn’t or couldn’t speak. You were skin and bone. I can’t even imagine the horrors you endured in your early life. But that ended with the Colliers.” She squeezes my hand, willing me to believe her. “They were good people.”
“I wish I could remember them,” I whisper.
She stands and takes my hand. “There’s no reason why you should. It felt like forever for us, because we wanted you so badly, but it was only two months. We’d already been approved to adopt, thank goodness. Otherwise, the process could have been longer.”
“Here,” Carrick says. “It must be harrowing not knowing, but I have a few things from that time for you. Maybe they might help you remember.” From inside his jacket he produces a large envelope. I sit down at my desk, steel myself, and open it. Inside I find a résumé for Mr. and Mrs. Collier and details about their family, a daughter and two sons. Several letters, and two drawings…my drawings?
I gaze down at them, and my scalp tingles with a sense of wonder.
Both pictures are in crayon. They’re a scrawled child’s view of a house with a yellow door. There are stick figures: two adults, five siblings.
The sun shines over them all. Huge. Bright.
The second picture is similar, but all the children are holding what look like sugar cones with ice cream.
It appears happy enough.
“We had reports on you every week from them. And we visited. Every weekend.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Grace and Carrick exchange a look.
“It never came up, son.” Carrick’s jaw tightens, his voice quiet with remorse, I think, as he shrugs. “We wanted you to forget, about all…” He trails off.
I nod. I get it.
Forget about my life with the crack whore.
Forget about her pimp.
Forget about my life before them.
I don’t blame them. I’d like to forget.
Why would anyone want to remember that?
“I hope this helps with some of your questions,” he says.
“It does. I’m glad I called you. It was Ana’s idea.”
Carrick smiles. “She’s one brave woman, Christian.” He glances once more at Grace. She nods, and it looks like she’s giving him permission. He hands me another envelope.
With a puzzled look at both of them, I open it. Inside is a birth certificate.
STATE OF MICHIGAN
CERTIFICATE OF LIVE BIRTH
State file number: 121-83-757899
Date filed: June 29, 1983
Child’s Name (First, Middle, Last, Suffix): Kristian Pusztai
Date of Birth: June 18, 1983
Gender: Male
Child’s Birthplace: Detroit, Wayne County
Mother’s Name Before First Married: Életke Pusztai
Mother’s Age: 19
Mother’s Birthplace: Budapest, Hungary
Fathers Name: Unknown
Father’s Age: Unknown
Father’s Birthplace: Unknown
I hereby certify that the above is a true and correct representation of the birth facts on file with the Division for Vital Records, Michigan Department of Community Health.
Kristian! A tremor runs up my spine. My name!
And the crack whore! She has a name.
From nowhere I hear her pimp asshole shouting. “Ella!”
Ella…short for Életke.
His usual epithet was bitch.
I shake off the thought.
“Why are you giving this to me now?” My voice is hoarse as I gaze at my parents.
“I found it with the letters and the drawings. In Mrs. Collier’s letters she calls you Christian with a K. So, if you wondered…” My mother’s voice trails off.
“Why did you change the spelling?”
“Because you are a gift. To us. From God.”
I stare at her. Stupefied. A gift? Me? All the shit I gave the two people standing in front of me, and this is what they think?
“We felt we owed Him. You’ve always been a gift, Christian,” Carrick murmurs.
Tears pinch the back of my eyes and I take a deep breath.
A gift.
“Children are a gift. Always.” Grace’s maternal adoration is plain in her glistening eyes, and I know what she’s left unsaid—that I’ll find this out for myself, in a few months. Leaning over, she smooths my hair off my forehead. I return her smile and, standing, pull her into my arms.